


12 Hours

by wraithfodder



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Emotional Baggage, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23073007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithfodder/pseuds/wraithfodder
Summary: Both Hynek and Quinn lost a significant chunk of time while at Area 51 and they can’t talk about it to anyone – except each other. A ‘missing’ scene right after “Area 51”.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	12 Hours

Blinding white light, consuming all. So bright it seemed to permeate his very skin, through shut eyes to pierce his brain, drawing away all physical sensation until only the light remained.

Quinn’s eyes shot open in an instant, blinking, the memory of the dazzling light vanishing as the dim early morning sun crept in through the slatted window blinds. He shook his head, clearing the last vestiges of … what? What the hell had that been about? He scrubbed a hand through his hair and swung his legs over the side of the bed, only to find his limbs entangled in the rumpled bed sheets. He yanked the sheets away, then grabbed for the alarm clock to check the time. He missed by an inch, instead knocking the clock behind the end table. Crap. Instead he gazed at the window and the slowly increasing sunlight. Had to be around five, so he’d barely managed any sleep after the return from Area 51.

He’d taken a second shower after he’d rolled out of bed. The one the night before had just been to clean off the Nevada grit, but now he’d needed another one just to wake up. He had to admit that was one of the luxuries of living alone; no one complained if he used up all the towels. He’d been part way through shaving when he’d stopped, staring oddly at the razor blade, tiny glops of shaving cream dripping off into the sink basin, when it had hit him. 

They’d gotten out of the truck at the base, only to have the Air Police literally latch on to them as if they would bolt for it. Perhaps a lesser disciplined soldier might have done so, because not far away stood General Valentine, his eyes boring angrily into them – no, _him_ \- like a hungry predator zeroing in on its hapless prey. After the degrading experience of being publicly dressed down, Quinn knew the AP weren’t going to falter at their job like the last time when Hynek had stolen the jeep right out from under their noses. Four of the armed men proceeded to escort both Hynek and himself to the hangar where the next flight was due to take off. What little the two men had brought with them on the trip was already waiting for them. And true to what Banks had joked about, yes, there were snipers in the men’s room, sort of. One of the AP had followed him into the latrine, adding yet another layer of indignity to the dismal scenario. It wasn’t as though he could escape through the tiny slit of a window high up in the wall. That’s when he’d stopped and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his mind rapidly trying to assess everything that had happened since waking up in the truck. The time that had passed. Something was ringing alarm bells in his head but he couldn’t figure it out. The AP had then coughed – that loud kind of irritating noise that meant ‘move it or lose it’ – so he did, still wondering what was so off as he exited the room.

Yet as he put the razor down on the sink, what he’d missed in that hangar was now as clear as day. No stubble. His face in the mirror at Groom Lake had been as smooth as the day before. That just didn’t happen. 

He dressed in casual clothes. No uniform was required today and besides, his tan summer uniform was sorely in need of cleaning, He’d worn it two days straight, from Ohio to Nevada and back, running around a desert in the heat and then apparently dumped in the back of a military truck like a bag of turnips. Then there was that missing chunk of time - that disturbing stretch between a dark night sky and an abrupt return to the sun raised high in the sky, sending rays of oppressive heat downward to bake anything within its reach.

Quinn swung open the refrigerator door and looked at the paltry selection of food. The last couple of weeks had been so busy, or he’d just opted to eat out, that grocery shopping hadn’t been a priority. The shelves showed the lack of attention he’d paid to them. Half a loaf of bread, two strips of bacon that, judging from their off-color, might be better off burned up, and – he opened the egg carton – one egg. He held up the carton to one bleary eye. Great, the egg had a big crack. No cream, no milk. Worse, as he looked in the cupboard, no coffee. Didn’t seem that long ago that Susie Miller had been in his apartment. She’d opened the fridge, laughed and said that she’d make a casserole if only he’d _had_ something from which to make it, then suggested dining out. 

Quinn shut the fridge door, its metal latch clicking like a lock on an enamel tomb. The diner it would be.

* * *

The delicious scent of freshly made pancakes wafted directly up into his nostrils, the warm moist air soothing after all that arid air in Nevada. It had literally just sucked the moisture out of his skin. A second later, the aroma of hot coffee competed with the pancakes.

“Would you like a moment alone with your breakfast?” questioned a female voice.

Allen actually felt his cheeks flush. Mimi stood on the other side of the table, smiling, a slight pink tinge to her own cheeks before she laughed. Just as he started to reply, Joel raced into the room and dropped himself into the seat opposite Allen. He was still in his pajamas. “Yes, pancakes!” the boy extolled.

Mimi brought over a plate with several hot pancakes and placed it on the dining room table. Joel swiveled his head back toward the kitchen, his expression fine-tuned to that puppy like expression he knew worked 9 times out of 10 with his mother. “Can I eat and watch TV?... Please?”

Allen nodded when Mimi cast a quick glance his way. “Neat!” The boy jumped out of his seat and ran over to the kitchen counter, grabbing an aluminum tray from the dish rack. He transferred the pancakes into the larger triangular space of the TV dinner tray, then poured a brimming amount of maple syrup into the small second wedge-shaped space. Several slabs of cut butter filled the third empty slot. He carefully picked it up but Mimi gently pressed it down to the table. “Just one second, young man.” A moment later she slid a larger tray underneath, adding the napkin and utensils with it.

“Thanks, mom!” The boy quickly but carefully dashed to the living room with his breakfast. The sound of the TV filled the air a second later.

“You realize we’ve created a monster.” Allen took a forkful of pancakes and savored its taste for several seconds before swallowing.

“As I recall, you’re the one who said last night, let’s try out those TV dinner ‘things’ you bought.”

Mimi sat down with her plate of pancakes. She added a fraction of syrup compared to what Joel had doled out.

“Well, you bought them,” argued Allen with a smile.

“Joel had been pestering me to get them,” countered Mimi.

Allen nodded. He remembered bits and pieces of those conversations. “But Mom, Billy’s mom says they’re great!”

“They really weren’t bad, and well, since you got home late last night,” said Mimi.

He’d been starving when he’d arrived. It wasn’t like either he or Quinn had really eaten much while out on their latest case, which had turned into a disaster that left him dying for more information on what they’d seen. Despite grabbing a nap on the plane, he’d been bone-tired when he’d arrived home. Quinn, who’d seemed as equally worn out, had dropped him off.

They’d settled on TV dinners, sat on the couch, the television across the room airing an inane variety show that required not one brain cell to understand. They’d even let Joel stay up and enjoy the respite as well, but to be honest, Allen had done that to keep any adult conversation to a minimum. Since Mimi had been helping him with Blue Book, it was like she had blossomed. She’d dove into the research as though it were an old friend, and her retention of all those facts had astounded even him. It shouldn’t have. She’d been a bright college student before their paths had crossed, and the resultant sparks had resulted in their marriage and a son. 

“Are you okay?”

Allen looked up, sipped at his coffee. “Yes, just tired. They ran us ragged. At one point, literally.”

He’d given Mimi a cursory explanation of his trip. He always tried filled her in since the Washington D.C. incident. It was a release of sorts, being able to talk with her about his work and not slam up the doors of ‘I can’t talk about it, you know THAT’, words which had caused way too many tense moments between them.

“It was just so sad,” Mimi said. “Do they really think he killed his friend?”

“He didn’t have an alibi that satisfied them,” replied Allen. Lost time, missing time. It was a phrase he’d learned from his time with Blue Book, and also one Mimi had brought home from that UFO group meeting she attended. A phrase he’d immediately _not_ used when discussing what happened to Quinn and him at Area 51, especially since he didn’t know what it meant in their situation. And how many times had Quinn told him what _not_ to say about the last two days?

Top Secret. Classified. “Loose lips sink ships, and we’ll be that ship, Doc, so all that stuff we saw can’t be put in the report. Not even Faye can hear about this,” Quinn had cautioned. 

Despite Willingham’s confession, Allen was certain that the young soldier had not committed murder. Miller’s body had been found in a place that one man could not have possibly placed him. Quinn had done a cursory exam of the ground around the tree and found no footprints, but then the arid desert sand was so compacted it would have been difficult to spot anything. The non-coms who had followed in a truck had had the grisly task of removing the corpse from its high perch.

He only wished he knew more about that man-made cave in the mountain, what secrets lay within its depths. And those missing hours, just like Willingham had experienced. It was unnerving to think about but he was in one piece, as was Quinn, so they had that going for them. Quinn had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the trip back, no doubt in part due to General Valentine’s outrage over losing a man and thinking he’d lost two more. Allen had tried to deflect Valentine’s vitriol at himself but this general was like a granite wall that didn’t yield. Harding had had his own private demons that had consumed him during the Roswell investigation, making him more susceptible to Allen’s sways of logic. Valentine had a dead, mutilated airman and Allen had just dragged an Air Force officer off into the desert. And stolen a jeep. He tried to push ‘borrowed’ but Quinn had hissed “stolen as in Leavenworth stolen”. 

The Air Police had taken them both directly from Valentine’s verbal assault straight to an airplane hangar per the General’s instructions. Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Two lone metal chairs sat in the middle of the empty hangar, exactly six feet apart. He’d mentally measured it. About two feet in front of each chair sat the personal belongings they’d brought along; Quinn’s bag and Hynek’s briefcase. Both men were told to sit quietly and ‘stay put.’ The four guards then backed up about ten feet away and just stood there at attention. Allen swung his view over to Quinn. The Captain was sitting straight in his seat, hands in lap, not making eye contact. It only took 45 seconds before Allen couldn’t take it anymore. He turned in his chair, annoyed that Quinn wouldn’t acknowledge his gaze, “When do we get on the plane? And exactly where is this plane?”

“No talking,” said one guard.

Allen glared at the guard, then at Quinn, who was suddenly interested in the metal beams that crisscrossed the ceiling above them. One of the guards was glancing sideways in Hynek’s direction. The gaze reminded Allen of a scientist looking down into a microscope at a tissue specimen. He opened his mouth, a whole barrage of questions ready to fire, but snapped his jaw shut instead. Okay, two could play at this infantile game. “May I at least get something out of my briefcase?”

The guards looked at each, had an inaudible conversation and then one of them finally nodded.

Quinn was still in frozen soldier mode but at least he had shot Allen one quick glance. Okay, can’t talk. Allen could work around that. He retrieved a notepad from his briefcase, paused as he pondered precisely what he wanted to say, then wrote it. Next, he meticulously folded the sheet several times until he’d achieved the proper dimensions. Quinn was watching him out of the corner of his eye, obviously perplexed. A second later, that expression turned from confusion to horror but incredibly, Quinn deftly caught the paper airplane Hynek had sent his way. He didn’t bother to read it, or even really acknowledge it. Instead, he held his hand up, bent backwards. A guard who had walked up during the paper airplane’s flight took it from Quinn’s hand. The Captain’s jaw clenched visibly but he didn’t move an inch as the guard took the airplane and ripped it in half, and ripped it again, and repeated the process until the note had been reduced to confetti on the floor.

Seconds passed before the guard took a step forward, placing his gloved hands behind his back. Quinn was imperceptibly shaking his head. The other three guards, Allen noticed with a growing sense of uneasiness, were staring wide-eyed at the scene. 

“Captain Quinn,” said the lone guard at last. “Would you care to explain to your colleague what the situation is?”

Quinn was staring straight ahead, his eyes narrowed. When he finally spoke, Allen realized just how big a mistake he’d made in trying to work around the ‘no talking’ order. 

“Professor.” Quinn’s voice was level but had that tinge of menace he’d used time and again when they’d run against hostile townsfolk. “When you… ‘appropriated’ the jeep, we were chased by guards who failed to stop us. Technically, who failed to do their duty.” Quinn paused for a moment, a weariness now in his voice. “Those guards are now _our_ guards.”

_Oh damn._

The guard walked over, picked up Allen’s briefcase, snapped it shut. He walked several feet away and dropped it on the concrete. Allen cringed. His camera. Wait, IF his camera was in there. Blast, he hadn’t even noticed. The guard came back and stopped in between Allen and Quinn. “No talking, no exchanging love notes, no nothing, don’t even look at each other. You bo—” the guard stopped, pivoting ever so slightly on his heels to face Allen. “None of us want to fill out the extra paperwork if _you_ disobey orders.”

Allen slowly looked past the guard, trying to gauge Quinn’s reaction but all he saw was the man staring straight ahead at the yawning open entrance to the air hangar. Allen knew he’d pushed too far. Again.

Almost three hours later, two new guards showed up, relieving the four who’d had to stand like statues behind them. Allen and Quinn found themselves escorted outside to where a small Air Force plane, one that looked as though its last good days had been in World War II, waited on the tarmac. Quinn got on first, grabbing a rear seat. As usual, he took a window seat. Allen thought about it briefly. He selected a seat in the middle of the small plane, deciding it would be better to give Quinn some time to cool down. The flight would take at least five hours unless they caught a good tail wind. After a couple hours, Quinn walked past Allen, looking for something up front. A moment later he came back, past Allen, but then backed up. He sat down in the aisle seat on the other side. 

“There’s no food either. If I was paranoid, I’d say Valentine did this on porpoise.”

“Porpoise?” repeated Allen in confusion. “What do dolphins have to do with this?”

Quinn leveled a confused stare at Allen, then moved to the empty seat next to him. 

“On _purpose_.” Quinn leaned back in the seat. Allen knew the captain could definitely feel the plane’s prop vibrations through the threadbare seats. It was too similar to the rough jeep rides they’d endured in Nevada. It was amazing their kidneys hadn’t rattled out of their bodies. The loud propeller noise also made talking difficult and words, obviously, undecipherable at times. Quinn pointed at the 35mm camera Allen held in his hand.

Allen flipped open the back’s metal casing. “Film’s gone.”

“Of course it is.” 

Not that he’d even taken one picture of that incredible base with its unexplainable interior. Allen put the camera back into his battered briefcase, somewhat surprised it had been returned to him. He looked out the small oval window. Raindrops began to streak across the scratched material, washing away the Nevada dust that seemed to be everywhere. The sun was setting, the light blue horizon rapidly segueing into a deeper steel blue. He’d get home late but at least he was getting home, unlike Miller, whose mutilated corpse was now in a protracted battle between the CIA and the Air Force, and Sergeant Willingham, whose fate they might never know. Allen turned his head to the side. Quinn was half-gazing at the ceiling, one leg stretched out comfortably into the aisle. Not as if there were any other passengers on the plane to gripe about that infraction.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said.

“For what?” Quinn opened his eyes fully. “For being an asshole? For stealing the jeep? For trying to get Valentine to lock us up by insisting we investigate a closed case?” When Allen didn’t respond, Quinn rolled his head to the side. “Seriously? You don’t know the answer to that?”

“I’m thinking,” said Allen. “First one.”

Quinn let an out inarticulate sound of exasperation. “So, you don’t regret the other two?”

“No, yes. I don’t know.” Allen crossed his arms against his chest. “All that… everything.. and we can’t even—”

“Our report isn’t going to be redacted because there is no way we are writing down anything that is classified.”

“We deal in classified information all the time,” said Allen.

“Not from the CIA, not from a part of the Air Force that has technology that we can’t even begin to fathom, or—” Quinn stopped.

“What?” prodded Allen.

“Or can have a base where everybody disavows any knowledge of how we lost 12 hours,” finished Quinn. “That is scarier than the thought of UFOs abducting people.”

Allen didn’t think so, not if what happened to Miller was the result, but he didn’t press the issue. 

“What was in the note?”

Allen looked up. Quinn was staring at him. 

“Do you think we’ll be fired?” Allen replied.

“I really don’t know,” Quinn said, his worried expression betraying his words. “So, what was so important you had to be like a school kid passing a note under a desk?”

“Do you think we’ll be fired?” Allen repeated. “That’s what I wrote.”

“Oh.” Quinn seemed disappointed. What had he been expecting? A detailed escape plan?

“Do you think those guards really would have—”

“Shot us?” finished Quinn calmly. “You?” he shrugged in a casual manner. “Probably. Me?” He shook his head. “No. Too much paperwork to explain shooting a superior officer.”

Allen studied Quinn, unsure if he was serious or indulging in some twisted humor.

“Doc, that base is hiding top secret technology, their airmen are ending up shish kabobbed on trees, and they’ve got bases carved into mountains.” Quinn stood up and gazed toward the pilot’s cabin before looking back at Allen. “If Banks hadn’t shown up when he did, well, losing our jobs might have been the least of our worries. Get some sleep. Who the hell knows what’s waiting for us when we get back to Wright?” He went back to the seat in the rear, leaving Hynek to stare out the window again.

It hadn’t been a seething Harding, a guard with a rifle, or even Faye with memos that needed signed, that greeted them upon arrival. Just an empty runway. Everything was coated by a light steady drizzle which left all surfaces wet and glistening from the artificial lights. The plane taxied away, leaving them standing there alone in the dark, almost a flip of when they’d been deposited in the desert by the helicopter. It was a five-minute walk back to the Blue Book building where Quinn’s car was parked in front. He’d given Allen a lift home, cautioning him for the umpteenth time to not let any top-secret information leak.

“…and I already booked the first-class tickets to Tahiti. You can take a third job to pay for them,” said Mimi.

Allen blinked. “What? Wait, Tahiti??”

“Where have you been?” said Mimi.

“Right here.” Allen noticed the fork in front of him, the piece of pancake still impaled on its tines. He stuffed it in his mouth, instantly realizing that what had been nearly hot a moment ago was now cold as his mind had wandered back to the desert.

“You’ve been staring at your plate,” continued Mimi, concern coloring her voice. “What happened out there? What aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ve told you everything—” Allen stopped. He laid his fork down on the plate. He sighed. “Everything that I’m permitted to tell you.” He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the coffee that he knew had to be cold as well. “There is… top secret…material there. And, we’re a bit on the General’s bad side at the moment.”

“General Valentine?” said Mimi. He could see in her eyes that she envisioned him as the polite man who dropped by once in a blue moon, not the one swearing a blue streak at him and Quinn.

“We...” Allen paused. “We ‘borrowed’ a car.”

“You stole a car?” Mimi looked astounded, no, horrified. No, worse, _that_ look she gave Joel when he did something bad. 

“What is with you and the Captain?” Allen muttered under his breath. “Look, no, we borrowed the jeep, albeit without permission, to go back to recheck the scene for evidence. The General was not happy that we had done that so we were sent home.” At Mimi’s shocked expression, he quickly added “But everything will be okay. I’m sure the General got it out of his system.”

Mimi’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, her head turning a little, an unconscious act when she was dissecting what had been said. “Just what did he say?”

“I can’t repeat most of it as if I put it in a report, it would be redacted.” Which was a lie, except for the redacted part. That kind of language wouldn’t get put down on paper, at least not in a Blue Book report.

“Mom! Will maple syrup hurt the couch?”

A UFO materializing in their dining room couldn’t have caused a more alarmed look on Mimi’s face. She quickly grabbed a dish towel off the countertop, loudly saying “Don’t rub it!” as she dashed to the living room.

Allen quickly ate a few more forkfuls of the cold pancakes. Now was a good time to escape. He needed to be alone to think over all that had happened at Area 51, and here wasn’t the place. Faye wouldn’t be at the office, and he seriously doubted Quinn would be either.

* * *

Despite it being 6:30 in the morning on a weekend, Wright-Patterson Air Force Base was busy. Why Allen had thought it wouldn’t be was beyond him. It was a massive military base tasked with keeping America safe. Even though World War II was thankfully over, the Korean War still hadn’t come to an end, the Cold War was building, and—Allen shook his head. He had enough to think about than to start dwelling about Russian spies hiding behind every bush.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep from the previous night that was fuzzing his mind. Despite being dead tired when he’d returned home, sleep had proved elusive. His mind was in ‘overdrive’ as Quinn would put it. He was trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces were one color, or worse, a whole bunch were missing. He didn’t want to contemplate that maybe that ‘missing time’ had something to do with it. He’d been tempted to call Quinn but dismissed the thought; the Captain hadn’t seemed in the mood for conversation.

He drove past the variety of parked military vehicles dotting the parking spaces, only to find Quinn’s car parked in front of the Blue Book office when he arrived. Allen ascended the concrete steps, quietly entering the building. Faye’s desk was neat, all paperwork put away until Monday morning. The door to the Blue Book office was slightly ajar, but Allen instead went down the hall, happy to see that someone - probably Quinn since no one else seemed to be there - had made coffee.

Allen peered in through the partially-open door. Quinn was at his desk, deeply engrossed in a pad of paper on his desk. One hand held a pen to the surface but he wasn’t writing. Several file folders were open, their very haphazard placement just wrong as far as Allen was concerned. As long as he’d known Quinn, everything was always in its place on his desk, even when he was deep into a case. Allen pushed the door open.

* * *

The scribbled words on the white pad didn’t mean much at that point. Quinn’s mind was back on the baking tarmac in Area 51. The dressing down by Valentine had been bad enough, yet it was the stinging words that the general had barked at him which still gnawed at the periphery of his thoughts… _“I will clean up this shit, because you can’t.”_ Worse than disobeying orders had been the disappointment, the lack of trust inherent in that one terse sentence. This mess, on top of Harding’s fury in Roswell when the film cannister Quinn had presented to him _hadn’_ t contained the alien footage, had left Quinn mentally exhausted and wondering just where his career was headed. He’d been truly surprised that there hadn’t been a welcoming committee when they’d return to Wright-Patterson the night before, but the day was still young. The black phone off to his right sat there silently, like the sword of Damocles just waiting to drop.

He sighed. He rolled the black pen between his fingers, noting that the ache in his hands hadn’t gone away. Both hands, really, and he wasn’t sure what that was about. He’d first noticed it when he grabbed breakfast at a nearby diner. By the time he’d driven to the office and gotten out of the car, it was just a dull ache in his palms that didn’t want to leave. The written words drew back his attention; he decided to ignore his hands for the time being.

A flash of movement in his peripheral vision attracted Quinn’s attention. When Hynek pulled up a chair next to his desk and sat down, Quinn arched an eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

Hynek made a face when he took a sip of the hot coffee. “Who taught you to make coffee?”

“The Air Force.” Quinn studied Hynek. He honestly didn’t look any better than Quinn felt. The man’s messed hair looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, he hadn’t even bothered with a tie. To top that off, Hynek was slouching in the metal chair. What Quinn didn’t like was that Hynek’s eyes were surveying the desk, recognizing the files scattered about, and no doubt had an idea what Quinn was doing.

“Didn’t get a lot of sleep…” Hynek sat up a little in the chair as though the caffeine had abruptly kicked in. “I tried to just turn off, not think about everything we saw…” He trailed off. “But I kept dreaming about that damned mountain base. You?” Hynek looked over at Quinn, a hint of expectation on his face. 

Quinn looked down at the pad again, at the odd doodles he’d made while trying to remember anything he could put in the case report. The brief jottings of cursive of what they’d derived from Sgt. Willingham, from finding the strange glass circle in the desert to the top-secret Air Force hangar, were meager at best. Even a breakdown of Miller’s grisly fate would be cursory as they’d been booted from the autopsy room. Banks’ arguments had fallen flat against the Air Force Colonel who had abruptly taken over the investigation. He’d thought some of what he’d seen might give him nightmares, in particular Miller’s corpse, but no, just that weird—

“Captain?”

“What?”

Hynek shot him _that_ look, the one which he used alternately as an answer for a silent ‘you really asked _that_?’ to ‘are you going to answer or not?’

“I got some sleep,” said Quinn after a beat. “And no, I did not dream about that damned mountain.” 

“But,” said Hynek.

“Nothing.”

“You dreamt about nothing?” Hynek cocked his head.

“Yes, no.” Quinn looked down at the paper pad, its white nowhere near as bright as what he’d seen upon awaking. “You know that kind of dream, you wake up and it just evaporates and it’s nothing, just light.”

“Light?” repeated Hynek. “What color?”

“White.” Oh damn, he’d walked right into that one. Hynek’s eyebrows arched, putting two and two together, strange dream, the Thomas Mann file open on his desk.

“I could hypnotize you.”

_That_ remark came totally out of left field. Quinn shook his head. “No.” Hell, he had enough demons in his past that he didn’t want anyone poking around inside his head.

“It’s safe,” insisted Hynek, leaning an arm on the desk’s top. “I wouldn’t—”

“Doc.” Quinn knew his tone came across as harsh, but he didn’t care. “Lately you seem to have developed a distinct lack of the meaning of the word ‘no.’ ‘No, we’re headed back to Ohio. No, we’re not taking the jeep.’” And that last bit wasn’t at all fair since he’d willing hopped into the vehicle before they sped off.

“But—"

Quinn shut his eyes, not wanting an argument he knew could easily develop with how frustrated he already felt.

“Uh, I understand.”

_What?_ That was quick. Too quick. Quinn looked over. Hynek had leaned back. Literally. His arm wasn’t on the desk but resting in his lap, eyes focused on his coffee mug. A flash of memory and Quinn was back in the car in Roswell, his rage over what Hynek had set in motion barely contained. Then Hynek was suddenly in the passenger seat, recalcitrant that he was going along for the trip but shoulders hunched, readying himself for another blow, if it came.

Quinn pulled his gaze back toward his sore hands. He swore silently, then clenched his fist. Doc probably thought he was going to get sucker-punched again. He flexed out the fingers, then did the other hand, realizing inwardly that’s exactly what he’d done in that kitchen after he’d struck Hynek. Well, this morning wasn’t going well, not at all. He rubbed one hand over the other, abruptly stopping as another memory reared its ugly head. Sitting at this very desk, his right hand feeling so weird, rubbing it, the lamp light flickering oddly in the darkness. He touched the lamp. The bulb blew in a sparking arc and he’d sat in the dark for fifteen minutes trying to figure out just what the hell had happened.

“Shit.”

“What?” Hynek’s query was tentative but definitely interested.

“Lubbock.”

“The lights, yes.” Hynek perked up. “And that V-shaped plane in the hangar.”

“Back up.” Quinn blinked, the memories of that bizarre trip to Texas still sharp in his mind. “Remember when Tom grabbed you in the hospital?”

Hynek grimaced at the thought. “My wrist was sore for days.”

“But he didn’t leave a mark. Deep bruising can do that,” said Quinn. “That’s what my hand felt like after what happened in the car. I couldn’t let go of the steering wheel.”

“Because the charge you received was most likely past the so-called ‘threshold of let go,’” said Hynek. He launched into full professor mode. “If the muscles contracted, whatever current was going through you was not doubt past 10 milliamperes, so you would be unable—"

“And—” Quinn cut in quickly, not wanting a lesson on biochemistry, neurons or worse, electrocution. “That didn’t leave any outward sign but for a day or so after, my palm felt bruised, like I’d been smacked with a M1 carbine.”

Hynek stared at him.

‘I was in the war, Doc,’ finished Quinn, thankful for Hynek’s silence.

“And that’s what my hands feel like now.”

A second later, Hynek was leaning over, pencil in hand. Quinn pulled his hands back. “I’m not a lab rat.”

“Maybe you are. We are.” Hynek sat back, a tinge of disappointment masking his features that he couldn’t poke at his partner’s hands.

“But I remember Lubbock.”

Hynek frowned. “But Tom didn’t. When we followed up with the authorities, Tom only remembered getting into his car, not driving out to where they found him.”

“And we got into the jeep.” Quinn let his voice trail off.

“You got behind the wheel,” said Hynek. “Maybe what’s needed is more time.”

“It was too long in my book,” countered Quinn.

“What I’m getting at is that maybe you needed a full dose,” pondered Hynek.

“Of electricity?” Quinn shook his head. “I prefer to stay alive. And with my brain intact.”

“It didn’t kill Tom, but then we don’t know I>precisely what you – we – were exposed to. Definitely electricity of some sort and contact with metal was definitely required in order to be affected. And remember what that car looked like, the metal all warped.”

Now Quinn _did_ feel like a lab rat. Insane theories about reflective shore birds, alien spaceships and now that V-shaped plane they’d seen in the top-secret hangar that no one would even acknowledge existed.

“Who’s to say that our technology, those aircraft hidden at Area 51,” continued Hynek, “hasn’t been re-engineered or retrofitted with alien technology that—”

“Geez, Doc, are you going to go on about that UFO conspiracy theorist crap that—” Quinn stopped. Everything he’d been bouncing around in his head since the waking up in the truck lined up in a perverse track; that high tech, top-secret aircraft were being tested around the country and the unsuspecting populace was going crazy thinking aliens from outer space were invading the planet.

“Exactly.”

Quinn frowned. “Stop doing that.” 

“What?”

“Reading my mind.”

“Yes, it’s a new power I got from our missing 12 hours.”

“Don’t joke about that, Doc.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve got 12 hours we can’t account for. I thought you were joking, but then I checked my watch and nobody disputed it.” 

“Yes, I noticed the complete stonewalling, even from our new friend.”

Agent Daniel ‘call me Dan’ Banks. At first Quinn had been suspect of the man, inwardly ashamed that that he hadn’t considered that the colored man in front of him could be their CIA contact. Societal biases and years of seeing segregated units in the military had helped fine-tune that attitude. 

And at the precise moment Quinn had thought Valentine might utter the words ‘court martial’, Banks just sauntered in like he was showing up for a barbecue and pulled their collective asses out of the fire. He owed the man, but maybe that’s what Banks wanted. A part of him was still wary of the CIA operative who, on one hand saved them, but on the other hand, was a locked door to information they needed. He seemed very willing to help, but Quinn knew from experience that nothing was free.

Someone knocked on the door. No. In glancing over, Quinn saw that Hynek had rapped his knuckles on the desk

“Oh yeah, missing time,” said Quinn. “What can cause it. If, and that’s a big if, some technology knocked us out-“

“Electricity can do that,” said Hynek.

“Doc, we were in the middle of a desert.”

“Drugs,” pondered Hynek. “There are some that can affect memory.”

“Doc,” said Quinn. “I don’t think there are any drugs you can set to an exact timeframe for memory loss, and definitely not the same for two people.”

“Point taken.”

“And besides, no needle marks.” The whole maybe-they’d-been-drugged scenario had flitted around his mind so he’d done a thorough search while in the shower.

“Well, there is dermal absorption.” Hynek leaned back in his chair, staring out into the office. “Many people are unaware that toxins can be absorbed through the stratum corneum, and—” Hynek stopped, aware of Quinn’s bored gaze at him. “Through the skin.”

“What it boils down to is maybe we saw something someone didn’t want us to remember,” said Quinn. “The government hid a lot of stuff during the war.”

“But we remember that cave in the mountain,” reminded Hynek.

“Which you blurted out to Valentine.” Shit. Quinn had felt his blood pressure drop but thank God Valentine had been on a tear so maybe he hadn’t heard it. Yeah, like _tha_ t had happened. “Like I said, you can’t wipe out memory from point A to point B because hell, logically, why not just wipe our entire visit to Groom Lake and Area 51?”

“Because—” Hynek faltered. “I have no idea. Shock? Seeing something so horrible that…”

“What? Shell shock? No.” Quinn shot Hynek a side glare that he was certain screamed ‘and no, I am not explaining precisely how I know that.’ He let his focus go back to the files on his desk. “We really need to talk to Sgt. Willingham.”

“That’s insane,” said Hynek. “We’ll never get near him after what happened there. We’d probably be shot at the fence.”

“Oh my god,” Quinn almost laughed.

“What?”

“We’ve had a personality transplant,” replied Quinn. “I’m making lame-brained suggestions and you’re squashing them.”

Hynek laughed, then, a tad bit hurt. “Lame brain?”

“Let’s steal a U.S. military jeep, go AWOL – which technically I was, and trespass on top-secret land,” said Quinn.

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” said Hynek.

“Maybe for Christmas,” said Quinn.

And that other option, the one neither man wanted to voice aloud, laid heavy in the air like a cloud of toxic fumes.

“And will you just stop that?” came Hynek’s annoyed voice. Quinn looked up from where he’d been staring blankly at the papers all over his desk. Hynek stood up and came around the desk. He deftly plucked Quinn’s hand off the back of his neck where it had been resting and pushed it down on the file folder on the desk.

Crap, he hadn’t even realized he’d been rubbing the back of his neck. He let his other hand drop to the desk.

“I’m not blind, Captain.” Hynek waved both hands at the desk. “I swear you’ve got half our case files scattered here in this... mess, and,” he reached down, snatching a small sealed manila envelope from where he peaked out of a folder. He shook the contents, which slid back in forth inside the envelope, in front of Quinn’s face. Quinn swatted it down but Hynek persisted.

“You do not have an implant in your neck. _We_ do not have implants in our necks.”

He’d reading and re-reading the Thomas Mann file for the last hour. That little inert disk or whatever it was that Valerie Mann had removed from her husband’s neck, sealed away in the envelope, just taunted him.

“And you know this because?” Quinn asked with a smile, one he hoped belied the worry that didn’t want to go away. He normally didn’t dwell on things, but for some reason, this situation just wasn’t leaving his thoughts. And Hynek insisted on calling that piece of _whatever_ an implant. They’d never determined what it really was.

“I checked. Even got a second opinion.”

Alarm bells rang in Quinn’s mind. “You _what_?”

“Mimi give me a neck massage.” Hynek smirked.

Quinn rolled his eyes. Susie hadn’t been at his apartment when he’d returned. She was prone to sometimes just being there, like a mysterious ship drifting into port. It was oddly tantalizing. Part of him missed her badly but in his worn-out state, he probably would have walked right past her enticing form and collapsed on the bed.

He flipped the Thomas Mann folder shut. A lone piece of paper flitted out from the sheer force of the action. Quinn shoved it back in, not caring about the bent edges, then pushed the folder into the haphazard stack on the other side of his desk. He yanked open the bottom desk drawer, bringing out a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.

“Tell me, Doc. What does 12 missing hours mean to you?” He opened the bottle, carefully watching Hynek’s expression change to purely analytical as the man thought about his question.

“That we need to get to the bottom of—”

“Yes, of course, the bottom of it.” Quinn poured two glasses, realizing that the bottom of the bottle was the bottom he was probably going to reach.

“Uh, Captain, it’s not even eight a.m.,” cautioned Hynek.

“And it’s Saturday, I’m technically off-duty.” Quinn took a swig, but not the entire amount, as tempted as he was to do so. The liquor scorched down his throat, that warm familiar feeling leaching into him.

“Missing hours for someone who works in a classified job, in the military, is a problem,” explained Quinn. “Missing hours means, where were you? Passed out drunk in an alley? How’d you get there? Who were you with? What did you talk about?’ Hynek had an incredulous look plastered on his face that Quinn really wanted to wipe off. “If you can’t account for your time, you’re compromised. If you’re comprised, you’re not trustworthy and bingo, if you’re lucky, you’re out of a job, or in my case, court martialed.”

Quinn slowly nursed his drink, watching in interest as Hynek’s mind went into gear, parsing out all the variables like it was a math problem. Why it was taking so long was interesting, as usually the Doc could figure this out a lot quicker, especially with the ‘civilian life’ example he’d handed him. Unless, Quinn pondered, the Doc really hadn’t gotten any sleep. The last time that had happened had been pretty bad.

“If Valentine thought you, we,” Hynek rapidly corrected, “were a security risk, why even let us off the base?”

“He’s got the whole Willingham mess to contend with,” said Quinn flatly. “No way did the sergeant confess.”

“I mean, maybe we know too much. The mountain.” Hynek said, more to himself.

“And knowing too much can you make you disappear, too, Doc. Double-edged sword there.”

Hynek sighed. He grabbed the untouched glass of bourbon, held it in one hand but didn’t drink it. “So, we have a hidden base in a mountain that no one will talk about, that, when you think about it, Valentine didn’t even acknowledge.”

“Oh, he heard you, I’m sure. He was just too busy deciding whether to roast us over an open flame or toss into a moat full of alligators.”

“You can joke about this?”

Oh, hell yeah, he could, but Quinn didn’t utter that aloud. He idly rubbed his fingers back and forth on his half-empty glass, wondering if he should refill it, when Hynek stood up from his chair and began pacing in front of the desk. 

“I think if Valentine was going to do anything with us, he’d have done it,” said Hynek. “Besides, the whole waiting-for-the-flight humiliation was probably enough.”

Quinn took another sip of bourbon. _That_ was something he’d definitely like to forget, but maybe that was it. It’s not like the Generals had someone waiting in the wings to take their place at Blue Book.

“But it makes no sense.”

Quinn looked up.

“Miller’s body. I mean, who or what would do that to a person?” continued Hynek. “And how did he end up hanging in that tree?”

“Impaled.”

“What?” Hynek stopped his pacing.

“Miller was impaled, not hanged.” When he’d seen the corpse skewered in the tree, Quinn’s mind had spiraled back to Buchenwald, the rotting corpses of SS guards hanging from the trees outside the camp like perverse decorations. The prisoners had meted out their revenge on some of the guards who hadn’t fled fast enough. Even before Eisenhower had ordered media and Congressmen to visit the camp, to witness the heinous carnage for themselves, he’d been a pilot chosen to fly a colonel to the camp. Just his bad luck he’d been available at that moment. The colonel had decided he should visit the camp as well.

“But there was something off about that body.”

“Besides the missing eyes and organs?” 

Hynek glared at him and that was okay with Quinn. The Doc could look at a body in an abstract manner, that’s how he’d probably internalized what he’d seen, put aside the true horror and compartmentalized it down to science. Quinn had become inure to corpses because of the war, until that day he’d stepped foot into Buchenwald. Walking skeletons with deep-sunk eyes, emaciated corpses stacked like heaps of cordwood, the hooks on the wall where prisoners were hung like slabs of beef before the bodies were burned.

“There’s no logic in a person doing something like that to another person,” said Hynek. “And Willingham didn’t come across as the type—”

“You’d be surprised what people can do to each other,” interrupted Quinn. Just one more sip of bourbon. “But that was surgical precision, at least from what little we got from that doctor. And while maybe one guy could get a corpse up in that tree, maybe he was dropped. But that would mean an aircraft. Willingham isn’t a pilot, so what, a second conspirator?”

“Or?” said Hynek.

Quinn held up a finger. He did not want to hear the ‘dropped from a UFO’ theory.

“No smell,” Quinn said after a moment. Unlike Buchenwald, where the stench of decaying bodies and horrific smoke had rolled down the countryside surrounding the camp, permeating everything it touched with its pervasive miasma.

“What?” said Hynek.

Quinn leaned forward on the desk. “Let’s say Miller was dead from moment both men went out there. That he was out in the elements all that time, in that heat. There should have been some smell of decay.”

“For an autopsy wouldn’t they wash—”

“No, you’d want all the evidence preserved.” Quinn recalled standing there, head bowed momentarily in respect for a fellow service member, before he turned off all emotions to look at the mutilated corpse. “I’ve bought chicken at the grocer’s that’ve smelled more than Miller.”

Hynek sat back down in the chair. He was silent for a minute. “Do you think we’ll get an autopsy report?”

“Valentine will probably get us a one-page summary if we’re lucky,” said Quinn. “We’ll write up what we can. The case is closed.”

“But—” came Hynek’s inevitable response.

“Sometimes you can’t do anything.” Quinn finished off his whiskey. Remembering what he couldn’t do at Buchenwald. He and the colonel, an arrogant man whose name he couldn’t even recall, had been told ‘don’t touch the prisoners, you could get sick. For God’s sake, don’t give ‘em food, it could kill them.’ He’d seen battle-hardened soldiers walking around the massive compound with shock and horror etched into their faces. He had no doubt his face had mirrored that exact same distress. After several long hours the colonel had seen enough. Quinn flew him back. A couple days later that colonel was in the hospital sick as a dog. Maybe he’d touched a prisoner or the lice just got on him. He’d contracted a near-fatal case of typhus.

“What do we put in the report. ‘Researching anomalous celestial activity’ for that time we can’t account for?”

Quinn cocked his head over at Hynek, then the untouched glass. “Are you going to drink that?” Hynek shook his head. Quinn grabbed it and drank some. Hynek made a noise of distinct disproval, not that Quinn cared. “I guess since neither of us remembers anything, and we’ve got all our body parts…” Quinn drifted off, the bourbon helping temper his mood. “I don’t know, Doc. Write up something about that celestial stuff we can fill the report with.”

“That we got lost in the desert,” suggested Hynek.

“I aced survival training.” Quinn shook his head emphatically. 

“Even the best—”

“No, you’re a professor, think of something like, we lost track of time.”

Hynek smirked. “To use your own words, that sounds lame.”

Quinn shuffled the files into a more orderly pile. Once he was satisfied with the stack, he leaned back in the chair. He stared at the second glass, its amber liquid beckoning. Waste not, want not. He finished the bourbon in one gulp. “Isn’t that what happened? We lost time.”

Hynek sighed. “And we can beat this to death forever.” He took a swallow of coffee, then made a face. “I think we’ll leave all the coffee making to Faye.” He rubbed both hands together, a decision made. “So, now what? Write the report?”

Quinn pushed back in his chair. “Hmm, no. I need food.”

* * *

“What the hell is that?”

Quinn grabbed the jar that Hynek had put into his grocery cart. “Cheese Whiz?”

“You know when you said you needed food, I thought, we’d go to a diner. I could get a cup of decent coffee.” Hynek was busy perusing the shelves in the grocery store as he walked alongside Quinn. “I didn’t think you meant grocery shopping.”

“Already had breakfast, but my fridge looks like Area 51. A wasteland.” Quinn grabbed some corn chips off the shelf. Studying the orange jar in the cart, he backtracked a couple feet and grabbed a jar of the processed cheese spread for himself. 

“Don’t you ever shop?” said Hynek.

“Between all the cases and travel, the supplies just dwindled down.” Quinn wondered when ‘groceries’ had become ‘supplies’. “Besides, when was the last time you went grocery shopping?”

“I…uh….”

And Hynek’s response petered out, just as Quinn expected. They hit the produce aisle. He grabbed salad fixings of lettuce, celery, tomatoes. “You’ve got a wife who shops and keeps your fridge stocked, who I’ll bet has dinner waiting on the table for you when you get home.”

“Why don’t you just get a wife then?” Hynek wandered back to the snack aisle, studying the selection of chips.

Oh yeah, like you went out and _got_ one, Quinn thought inanely as he stared at the bunch of carrots in his hand. He tossed them into the cart. Aisle six. Choose a blonde, brunette or redhead. Wasn’t as though he _hadn’t_ thought of marriage, more so before the war, a career in the military, and all the complications that entailed. If war hadn’t broken out, he wondered where he’d be now, if he’d have a wife and couple of rug rats underfoot. A house with a lawn to mow. Dinner waiting for him when he got home, instead of hanging around a bar, smoking, contemplating his life in a glass of liquor.

Two large bags of potato chips landed in the cart, pulling him from his melancholy thoughts.

“Professor Blackwood and his wife are dropping over for dinner tomorrow night,” explained Hynek. He sighed as though releasing some heavy burden. “Mimi said Professor Sanders might come as well. That will be at least an hour of him talking about exam grades.”

Quinn dumped a bunch of bananas in the cart. 

“Don’t squash the chips,” warned Hynek.

“Then get your own cart.” Quinn couldn’t help but smirk. Hynek drifted off to another aisle in pursuit of something.

Quinn mentally ran over what was missing at home. Bread, milk, eggs, bacon, the usual breakfast food. He wasn’t a fan of cereal, although… he grabbed some oatmeal. That was always good. Then he thought about Susie’s casserole comment, so canned tuna, peas and pasta went into the cart. What if she stayed for breakfast? Maybe next time it would segue into a lazy weekend morning. She didn’t work weekends, did she? He honestly didn’t know that much about her, but then he wasn’t exactly an open book either.

Definitely needed coffee. He got the fixings for blueberry pancakes. The frozen food section beckoned. Frozen blueberries would last longer than fresh so he grabbed a bag. He studied the TV dinners. Meatloaf sound good, as did the fried chicken. Salisbury steak rounded out the lot. He grabbed two of each and tossed them in the cart. 

“Is there something I should know?”

Hynek had returned with boxes of cookies and jars of condiments precariously balanced in his arms. He just let it all cascade into the cart. This was going to be a mess to sort out at the register.

Quinn suddenly realized Hynek was seeing more food there than _one_ man really needed. He also knew that he wasn’t ready to share with the world – or his partner – that he was involved with Susie.

“Sure, the Russians are nuking us next Tuesday, gotta stock up. Didn’t you get the memo?” retorted Quinn, quickly adding. “Like I said, the cupboards are basically bare. Most of this stuff will last into next year.”

“Uh huh.” Hynek disappeared again, off to another aisle. 

Quinn wondered just what that ‘uh huh’ meant, but decided he’d already spent way too much time overthinking everything, so he pushed it out of his mind. Hynek caught up with him at the register. He dumped more food on the counter. A jar of cocktail gherkins began rolling toward the edge and certain doom. Quinn caught it and placed it upright on the counter surface.

Hynek looked at all the items, then at the young woman behind the cash register. “Where would I find onion dip fixings?”

“The mixes are in aisle six,” the petite brunette replied.

Hynek reappeared seconds later, dashing up to add a small red box to his pile.

“Forgetting something, Doc?” Quinn waited for Hynek to reply but judging from the frown on the man’s face, it was obvious he was. 

“Sour cream for the dip?” the cashier suggested. “Aisle eight.”

Quinn pushed Hynek’s pile toward the rear of the counter. The woman was nearly done ringing up Quinn’s purchases by the time Hynek returned with the sour cream and more bags of chips. Just what kind of parties did Hynek throw with his university colleagues, Quinn wondered.

A gawky teenager was waiting to bag the groceries, but Quinn knew he could do a better job. With military precision, he fit all his items into two bags instead of three. The kid stared at him with awe. 

Once all the groceries were in the car trunk, Quinn drove back to the base since Hynek’s car was there.

Hynek put his bags of basically chips, condiments and cookies into his car. 

Quinn lit up a cigarette. He leaned against his black car. Hynek shut the trunk to his car and turned around. “How about this?” said Quinn. “We both write our versions of the reports tonight, whatever we remember. We meet up here tomorrow morning, say nine? Then compare and toss it into one report. Maybe we’ll recall something new by then.”

“Somehow, I doubt it,” replied Hynek. He got into the car, then turned around in his seat. “Whatever happened out there, to us, those _hours_. I know it’s bothering you, and frankly, I’m not happy with it either, but there’s nothing we can do. However, if either of us remembers anything, no matter how insignificant, we tell the other, okay?”

“Sure,” said Quinn.

“Nine tomorrow sounds good.”

Quinn watched as Hynek drove off. He took another drag off the cigarette, then pushed himself off the side of the car. He’d neaten up the files on his desk, then drive home before the TV dinners thawed in the trunk. He stopped in his tracks for a moment, watching the thin cirrus clouds scud by in the blue sky overhead. A jet took off in the distance, reminding him of chasing those strange lights in the sky in D.C., of memories, or were they delusions, of a massive stationary light floating in front of his jet.

What had happened out at Area 51? Where were those 12 hours? Quinn proceeded up the steps. Doc was right. They could wonder about it forever. Maybe they’d remember it, maybe they wouldn’t. He’d just hope that if any memory came back, it wouldn’t be something he’d wish he could forget. He already had enough of those.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Episodic TV shows often lets great stuff ‘resolve’ itself in between episodes, which can be very aggravating for fans. Because losing time seemed such a significant thing to occur to the guys. I wanted to address it. It also gave me the chance to tackle that niggling piece of Quinn’s backstory presented in “Operation Paperclip” where he said he was one of the first to enter Buchenwald after its liberation. Only the Army participated in that action, but a little research gave me a realistic way to back up Quinn’s words.


End file.
